Every home; the landslip-fall,
And the inlet's fringe of birch,
And the ancient moulder'd church,
And the river alders, all
From my boyhood I recall.
But methinks it all has grown
Grayer, smaller than I knew;
Yon snow-cornice hangs more prone
Than of old it used to do,
From that scanty heaven encloses
Yet another strip of blue,
Beetles, looms, immures, imposes—
Steals of light a larger due.
[Sits down and gazes into the distance.]
And the fjord too. Crouch'd it then
In so drear and deep a den?
'Tis a squall. A square-rigg'd skiff
Scuds before it to the land.
Southward, shadow'd by the cliff,
I descry a wharf, a shed,
Then, a farm house, painted red.—
'Tis the farm beside the strand!
'Tis the widow's farm. The home
Of my childhood. Thronging come
Memories born of memories dead.
I, where yonder breakers roll,
Grew, a lonely infant-soul.
Like a nightmare on my heart
Weighs the burden of my birth,
Knit to one, who walks apart
With her spirit set to earth.
All the high emprise that stirr'd
In me, now is veil'd and blurr'd.
Force and valour from me fail,
Heart and soul grow faint and frail
As I near my home, I change,
